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Lahat ng Kabanata ng Dear Ex Husband, You Lose!: Kabanata 61 - Kabanata 70

76 Kabanata

Sixty one

Delia The creak of the floorboard wasn’t what froze Delia this time. It was the knock—sharp, heavy, deliberate. It rattled the doorframe, the sound reverberating through the apartment like a warning. Her breath caught. Frank wasn’t supposed to be back yet. The knock came again, harder this time. “Frank! I know you’re in there!” The voice was male, rough-edged and furious, each word soaked in threat. Delia stiffened. She didn’t recognise it. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Whoever he was, he wasn’t someone friendly dropping by for coffee. Another thud shook the door. “Open the damn door, or I’ll smash it in!” The sound jolted Delia into motion. Panic surged, quick and hot, flooding her limbs. She looked around frantically—no phone nearby, no weapon, nothing. The apartment suddenly felt too open, too exposed. Her gaze darted toward the sliding balcony doors. The sheer curtains trembled in the faint breeze from a crack she’d left open earlier. It was her only option

Sixty two

Thomas sat in silence, the ticking of the wall clock filling the room like a countdown. Frank’s words still echoed in his head — trust no one. He wasn’t sure if that included Frank himself. He rubbed his temples, his thoughts spiraling, trying to find a thread of logic amid the madness. “Giancarlo family,” he muttered under his breath, as if saying it aloud might make it less monstrous. But it didn’t. It only made the whole thing feel more real. Frank was watching him — not speaking, just watching — and it made Thomas’s skin prickle. There was something unnerving about the man’s stillness, the precision of it. Frank didn’t fidget, didn’t breathe too loudly, didn’t move unless he had a reason. Thomas looked up at him. “You said Delia’s accounted for,” he began cautiously. “That she’s safe for now. I need more than that. If she’s caught up in this because of me, I need to know where she is. Who’s with her?” Frank’s expression didn’t change. “That information isn’t re

Sixty three

For a long time after the door slammed shut, Delia didn’t move. The silence that followed wasn’t comforting—it was suffocating. Her body trembled uncontrollably, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. The cold air stung her lungs. Finally, when the adrenaline began to fade just enough to let fear settle into exhaustion, she forced herself to move. Slowly, carefully, she straightened up, every muscle in her back stiff from crouching. Her knees ached, and her belly felt tight with the strain. The baby shifted inside her, restless, as if sensing her distress. “It’s okay,” she whispered hoarsely. “We’re okay.” But even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true. The apartment beyond the glass looked unchanged—eerily still, like a stage after a violent play had ended. The door was still ajar from where the men had half-opened it. Every instinct screamed at her to stay hidden. But another, louder voice—curiosity, desperation—pushed her forward. She had to know what had happen

Sixty four

Delia’s legs shook, and tears spilled unbidden down her cheeks. “What the fuck is going on, Frank?!” she yelled, her voice raw and trembling. “You just… you just leave me here like I’m some kind of child! And these people—they knew I was here! They—” Her words broke off into a sob, her hands gripping the window frame so tightly her nails dug into the wood. Frank’s eyes softened ever so slightly, but his jaw remained tense. “Delia, calm down. I—” “No!” she screamed, spinning on him, tears streaming freely now. “You can’t just say ‘calm down’! People broke into your apartment! They were looking for something and for you! And you—” She threw her hands up, wracked with a sob. “You just left me here, Frank. You—” Her voice cracked completely, and she sank to the floor on the balcony, clutching her belly protectively. “I could’ve… I could’ve been hurt. I could’ve—” Frank’s hands reached out, but she flinched away from him instinctively. “Delia, listen—” “I don’t care! I don’t ca

Sixty five

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them seemed to hum with electricity — the kind born of fear, confusion, and something far more dangerous. Frank stood by the window, his shadow cutting through the pale morning light. Delia remained frozen against the sill, her breath catching in short, trembling bursts. He’d said it so casually. I took care of it. As if the words could erase the blood on his sleeve, the chaos in the apartment, or the horror of the last few minutes. Delia’s voice cracked when it finally emerged. “You took care of it?” Her tone trembled somewhere between disbelief and rage. “That’s what you call this?” Her voice rose sharply, echoing off the walls. “There’s blood on the floor, Frank! Someone tried to break in — someone shot at us — and you just… what? Handle it?” Frank didn’t flinch. He never did. His expression remained unreadable, though something flickered behind his eyes — a ghost of fatigue, or maybe guilt. “They won’t come

Sixty six

Delia’s hands trembled, her chest heaving as she stared at Frank. The shell casing on the floor, the blood smears—everything screamed danger. “Frank… what the hell is going on?” she demanded, her voice breaking, a mix of fear and fury. “Why is my life like this? Why me?!”He moved toward her with that calm, lethal precision that never failed to make her pulse spike. He reached out, resting a firm hand on her shoulder. “Delia,” he said, low and controlled, “you can’t stay here. It’s not safe anymore. Not for you, not for the baby.”She shook her head violently. “I’m not leaving! I’m staying! You said you’d protect me. That’s what you promised!”His jaw tightened, a shadow of frustration crossing his features. “I promised your parents I’d look after you. And I am. But staying here? That’s a death sentence. I’ve seen them move. The Giancarlo family doesn’t forgive, and they won’t stop until they get what they want. You’re too exposed here.”Tears streamed down her face, and her voice cra

Sixty seven

The Giancarlo’s The room still smelled of gunpowder and sweat. Failure always did. Luca Giancarlo stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back as he stared out over the waking city. The skyline shimmered in the morning haze — sharp, beautiful, oblivious. Beneath it all, his empire simmered like a living thing, pulsing with movement, money, and blood. Behind him, Nico shifted uneasily. No one spoke unless Luca invited it. The weight of silence was part of the punishment. When he finally turned, his expression was composed, but his eyes — those cold, calculating eyes — burned with quiet fury. “You let them escape,” he said softly. “You still fools.” Marco swallowed hard. “We didn’t expect Frank to move so fast, boss. He must’ve had men nearby—” Luca raised a hand. The man fell silent immediately. “Don’t explain failure to me. Explain what you plan to do about it.” No answer came. Luca’s silence stretched long and sharp enough to cut. Finally, he walked to the d

Sixty eight

Thomas. For a single suspended heartbeat the world narrowed to the space between the doorway and his face. He looked smaller, older — the kind of smaller that was made of bad decisions and sleepless nights. His mouth opened and closed like he was searching for the right apology, the right reason, the right anything. “Delia.” He took a step forward, and the sound of his name in his voice landed like an accusation and a plea at the same time. Relief and fury coiled in her chest and refused to be separated. She wanted to run to him and shake him until he remembered what he’d done. She wanted to throw herself against him and slap him. The two instincts warred into a knotted mess and left her standing rigid where she was. Frank moved between them before either of them could bridge the distance. He did not look surprised. He never did. His silhouette cut a line of certainty — the man who walked into gunfire and came back with plans. “Keep your voice down,” Frank said, and even h

Sixty nine

“Then do it,” she said. “For her. For the baby. Not for me. Prove you mean it.” Thomas’s shoulders sagged as if someone had finally let the Atlantic weight of his mistakes settle into his bones. He didn’t argue, didn’t try to explain. For once his mouth closed and his hands opened—empty, guilty, ready. Frank moved with the economy of someone who had rehearsed this exact night a hundred times in his head. “Get what you can together,” he ordered. “Now. We leave in ten.” Delia was already on autopilot. Her fingers trembled but were precise: a photograph of her mother into a small envelope, prenatal notes folded and tucked into her bag, the single ring Thomas had given her years ago slid into a pocket she intended never to lose. Nothing extravagant. Items that smelled of home, of memory — the countersigns of a life worth fighting for. Outside, the street was a smear of sodium light and wet pavements. Frank’s car sat half-hidden in an alley; Jespar’s driver had already slid into

Seventy

Kylie had rehearsed the walk a dozen times in her head; the route from the back entrance of St. Mary’s to the anonymous café three streets over felt like a line she was walking between two worlds. One world was warm with the terrible loyalty she’d been raised in — the one where her sister’s whim was a law and silence a currency. The other was cold with truth and consequence, and it had begun to feel, to her own astonishment, like the only place she could stand. She had found the folder two nights ago, tucked under the false bottom of a desk drawer in Samantha’s apartment, a place she’d been told to clean and ignore the contents. Samantha had coached her to look like a dutiful sibling; she’d taught her tone, practiced the correct expressions when people asked if she was okay. But curiosity is a small, efficient thief. It had taken one quick look at the documents to see the architecture of something rotten: forged signatures, wire transfers routed through shell companies, receipts t

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